


The Plague (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Mage Series [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal, Angst, BDSM, Blood & Gore, Bugs & Insects, Diseases, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Frottage, Involuntary Slavery, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Pining, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Vaginal, Voluntary Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after 'The Mage's Slave' the countryside is gripped in the maws of a plague which seems to have no cure. John may have to break his most sacred vow to Sherlock in order to ensure his countrymen survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER

Hello all, I am Vinny’s Asguardian. Since Vincent Meoblinn is such a fairy (shut up, Vinny, your muse is Navi) that he gets all butthurt when people comment, I am now his buffer. All stories are posted WITH VINNY’S PERMISSION. Questions will be forwarded if they don’t show that you didn’t read the story at all. Negative comments (not including corrections) will be met with a request that you collect [a pair of balls](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b6/Ball-pit-28C3.jpg) from the pit and show yourself to the [search button](search?edit_search=true&utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Bshow_restricted%5D=false). If you are not old enough (meaning you cut yourself after each chapter) to handle angst, the occasional dub/noncon, plot twists, or psychological trauma, just go find a fluffy story written by someone else and rock yourself for a bit. It will all be okay (pets hair gently while rolling eyes).

Neither Vinny nor I own ANY of these characters or the companies associated with them. We do not make money off these fics and will not accept offers of funds. Prompts can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=6.+prompts/suggestions). Corrections can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=7.+spelling/grammar+corrections). Check out Vinny’s [blog](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/) for more stories, or his [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/vinny.meoblinn) for updates, and [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/eychloii) for story-related pics and fanboying. Requests for me can be posted to whichever story you are on atm.

***

 

Part Two of Mage's Series  
  
John looked out across Camelot and watched the smoke curl up. Bodies being burnt, some while still alive but that was likely a mercy. The plague was tearing through the countryside… had torn through the countryside. Only a few isolated areas were free of contagion. Caer Camelot was one of them, an island in the middle of a lake was another, and a village in France had managed to erect walls keeping the sick from entering before anyone fell ill.

_Last we heard,_ John thought.

They had no idea how the disease spread, but it was utterly devastating and highly infectious. Those who came down with symptoms died within three days, their bodies covered in boils, their lymph nodes swollen, their hair and teeth in the midst of falling out, and their voices completely gone to repeated vomiting and bloody, wracking coughs.

The coughing came first, and John theorized that it was the way the plague spread – through the blood and mucus that was coughed up. Of course, he’d be doing more than _theorizing_ if he hadn’t been confined to he castle! King Mycroft allowed no one to enter or leave the castle, though Sherlock had been throwing attempts at vaccines and serums over the walls for weeks now. So far nothing had worked, but Sherlock was determined. John was helping him, of course, but his own abilities worked best with contact and they had had none. The word of plague had come to them and they had battened down, taking in as many as they dared and being very selective about it before they locked the gates. Plague hit the town a week later and the wails could be heard from the town as sufferers slowly died, survivors mourned their dead, and the supposedly healthy beat at the gates and demanded entrance.

“I can _do_ something about this if you’ll just let me!”

“No.”

Sherlock was his master. John was his slave. His _willing_ slave, mind you. John had been freed and chosen to submit himself to Sherlock in order to keep the man he loved. Sometimes he regretted it, like now, when Sherlock was stubbornly refusing to see reason. Most times if he disagreed with an order he would ask to plead his case; sometimes Sherlock refused to even hear him out, but other times he listened to John’s thoughts and either agreed and adjusted his order or maintained his decision. Now he was refusing without a chance to petition, and John was furious.

“Sherlock, people are _dying_!” John begged, deciding this was as excellent a time as any to drop to his knees and supplicate himself.

“No.”

“Please!”

“I do believe I told you _not_ to argue with me.”

“I can help them, Sherlock.”

“Do you need to be gagged?”

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock had never gagged him before. It wasn’t a pretty image in his mind.

“I’m a Healer, Sherlock.”

“Apparently yes,” Sherlock sighed, then stood and fetched a scarf from his wardrobe.

John scooted away, still on hands and knees as he tried to convince Sherlock to listen to him.

“My body heals itself. I can go out there and find information and shout it up at you from the base of the wall,” John argued as Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him forward, “I’m supposed to help you find a cure, let me! Please!”

Sherlock pushed John onto the floor and sat on him, wrapping the scarf several times around his mouth to gag him with it. John continued to shout and squirm in frustration, but when he tried to reach up and pull the scarf off Sherlock became truly angry and slapped him across the face. The scarf caused him to bite his own cheek and his eyes watered from the jolt of pain. Sherlock angrily dragged him up and towards the bed where he lashed him with another scarf.

“If you need to use the privy make three guttural noises in a row,” Sherlock stated, then returned to his old lab, leaving the door open so he could hear John.

John fumed and struggled, but to no avail. He didn’t have Sherlock’s knack for escaping from bonds. After a few hours Sherlock returned, gave John a surprised look that told him he’d forgotten him, then walked over and released him.

“Going to behave yourself now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why I won’t let you go?”

“Because you’re a stubborn bastard?”

Sherlock slapped him for his insolence, but John managed to avoid biting his cheek this time. His eyes snapped back to his Master, angry and rebellious.

“Because I would die without you,” Sherlock stated simply, then turned and walked away.

 

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/130842.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

Despite his rage at being contained, John had his happy moments with Sherlock. Moments like this one, where he was in his favorite non-sexual position. Furniture. John absolutely loved to be Sherlock’s furniture. There was something undeniably sensual about being the man’s footstool, chair, table, or pillow. Sherlock sometimes ordered it in public to demonstrate his power over john; snapping his fingers and making a known gesture which told John to go down on all fours with his legs slightly spread and facing in the indicated direction. Sherlock would sit himself on his lover’s hips (the middle of the back could cause damage) facing the opposite direction. John carried two small pillows about the size of beanbags with him at all times, thick with soft wool and perfect to drop to the floor and cushion his knees; he wasn’t getting any younger, after all.

Such was today, when Sherlock had decided out of the blue that he wanted a seat and John had been ordered to the ground. Mycroft always sighed and rolled his eyes, but today Sherlock had done this in front of a mirror he was using to communicate with the Faerie realm. Apparently the plague had been kept out of there, and Sherrinford- their brother who had been a pig for quite some time a few years back- was well and ruling beside the Faerie princess he’d married. The brothers rarely spoke, their truce with the Faerie realm fickle despite the close bond; nothing was ever straightforward with Faerie folk. Sherrinford’s shock at seeing Sherlock sitting on his husband was obvious in his voice.

“Does Harry know about this?” Sherrinford had demanded to know.

“I imagine so,” Mycroft replied, sounding furious.

John was grinning from ear to ear, but they couldn’t see his face from their angle. Sherlock was probably smirking as well, John could tell from his posture. John had found he had a voyeuristic streak in him, basically becoming obsessed with displaying his submission to anyone and everyone around him; he got off on it and Sherlock knew he did.

“Sherlock, you know full well that you’re sitting on the brother of _royalty_. What the hell do you think this is? A game?”

“The most serious one I’ve ever played,” Sherlock replied frostily, and John felt his smile had left.

John’s sister Harry had been captured by the Faerie people as a child and had become a changeling- someone capable of changing their sex at will. Ze went by another name now, but John still referred to hir as Harry and they spoke frequently via a thrush trained to speak the human tongue and repeat whatever message they chose to pass. The thrush hadn’t come in nearly a month and John had been worried, which was why Sherlock had barged in to join the discussion the second he’d found out Mycroft had managed to contact their unpredictable neighbors. His beloved Master was always doing things like that, thinking of John without letting it known that he was doing so. Despite his apparent callous behavior at the moment, John knew full well they were there to ease his anxiety over his sibling.

“How _is_ Harry,” Mycroft asked, also aware of why Sherlock was there as he always was.

“My sibling-in-law fairs well,” Sherrinford replied, trying to sound regal, “Ze has been worried for the fate of hir brother for some time now, ever since their communion bird failed to return.”

_The thrush is missing? Does the plague affect animals as well?_

Sherlock, as usual, practically read john’s mind: “Does the plague affect animals as well?”

“We’ve seen no evidence, but then we’re limited to scrying,” Sherrinford replied, “Must you sit on him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

 _I love it when you sit on me. Use me. Make me yours._ John thought forcefully, trying to will Sherlock to hear how aroused this entire thing was making him. He was so achingly hard he was leaking pre-come in his trousers.

Sherlock seemed to hear him, though his only acknowledgement was to reach down and stroke his long, thin fingers over john’s hip. John shivered and shifted his hands to a more comfortable angle. He’d found making a fist and kneeling on his knuckles to be less strain on all his joints overall, though it had warped the shape of the knuckles themselves over time. He practiced it by doing push ups with his hands held the same way so his arms were quite strong; it would be hours before they began to shake from the strain of the position, and his active lover rarely ever kept him that way for so long.

“Sherlock, if Harry hears about this,” Sherrinford started, his voice taking on a whine.

“Oh for gods’ sake!” Sherlock snapped, “If she’s unaware of my relationship with john, or the _type_ of relationship as it were, then she’s undeserving of her status with the Faerie crown!”

“What does that mean?” Sherrinford asked, ever the head full of stones.

“John is my sex slave, now and forever.”

“You… he was freed! You married him!” Sherrinford argued, looking horrified.

“Honestly, Ford,” Mycroft sighed, “The entire _kingdom_ knows. Just a week before the plague started John was hauling Sherlock around town in a dogcart. Do get your head out of the sand!”

“That was a lovely day,” Sherlock stated, stroking john’s hip again, but this time in a loving way rather than a suggestive one.

“Yeah it was,” John replied, deciding Sherlock wanted a response. He wasn’t punished for it, so apparently it was all right if he wasn’t _quiet_ furniture today.

“What I’d like to know,” Sherlock sighed, “Was _where_ this started. I’m so damn confined in here that I can’t collect the data I need. What do you know? And don’t skimp on the details.”

“The plague came out of the south,” Sherrinford replied with a sigh, “It started in a town called Birch. The fairies there succumbed to it as well, so it does cross species in _some_ way. We lost… dozens.”

John shuddered. Fairies weren’t exactly plentiful. Dozens of them was equivalent to hundreds of humans.

“Then?” Sherlock asked, unfazed by the horrid news.

“It moved north,” Sherrinford shrugged, “Towards you lot and then passed you and headed for us.”

“Is it passed you?”

“We have no contacts to the north who are responding,” Sherrinford replied softly.

“Damn,” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “So little information. Haven’t you got anything _else_?”

“Faerie kind show different symptoms than human,” Sherrinford replied, causing Sherlock to lean forward eagerly, “Their chi is altered and they go mad first, cursing and blessing without control or cause.”

“So they’re unaffected, in other words,” John snorted. That earned him a smack with the riding crop.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! The Queen’s wife’s brother!”

“Titles only make it more attractive,” Sherlock smirked, “John, what do you think to me calling you that in bed?”

“Bit of a mouthful. Not thrilled with being reminded of my sister in bed,” John mused.

“Hm, point. How about ‘royal slave’? How’s that do you?”

“I’d rather _you_ did me, and aren’t I already a royal slave?”

“I do so love it when you’re _crass_ ,” Sherlock purred, then gave John another sharp strike with the crop. This one, however, was flirty and didn’t hurt so much as clap loudly against his skin.

“Thank you, sir,” John purred.

“That’s _disgusting_ ,” Sherrinford complained.

“They’re only showing off for you,” Mycroft sighed, “If you’d just ignore it they’d be less ridiculous. Sherlock just _lives_ to show off… not to mention his enjoyment of john’s voyeuristic side.”

“Is it _that_ obvious?” John demanded to know.

Sherlock snapped the crop again, this time over his bollocks, but not with the force John probably deserved. He yelped, jumped, and then giggled with a note of slight hysteria. He hated cock and ball torture, so a tap like that was his warning that Sherlock was changing the scenario around them and punishment could happen with a vengeance if he tested the waters. Likely he was now supposed to be _quiet_ furniture. John wouldn’t find out until he pushed too hard, but he had no intention of doing so. Sherlock would indicate how he should behave by word or sign from here on out.

“Don’t answer him,” Sherlock barked, his tone dangerous. Both his brother’s stilled and John all but held his breath.

It was common knowledge that his brothers feared Sherlock, but no one knew why beside john. The fact that Sherlock cared only for his slave was common knowledge, but the fact that he felt _nothing_ for anyone else was terrifying. Even John was more possession than lover to Sherlock, though he did display tenderness towards him. Sherlock was _attached_ to john, he told him, and John reveled in being owned by the man who both attracted and frightened him.

The fact was Sherlock had no interest in ruling anything despite the fact he could easily take the throne… and accidentally had at one point. His interest in life was purely intellectual, but he’d added the hobby of _owning John Watson_ to that short list. Now John was obsessed with being owned, but Sherlock was _bored_ and trapped in the castle, and that made John his only entertainment. Experimenting on, torturing, teasing, and fucking John was only going to get him so far.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to sooth, “Perhaps we could...”

“SHUT UP!” Sherlock shouted, “I need _out_ of this place. I need _a case!_ ”

John bit his bottom lip to stop himself from replying. Sherlock wanted him silent. Wanted them all silent. What Sherlock wanted, Sherlock got.

“You need a _cure_ ,” Mycroft sighed, voicing john’s thoughts, “And we don’t have the means to get one from here. We may need to send John out…”

“NEVER!” Sherlock shouted, standing and beginning to pace anxiously. A twitch of his hand ordered John to his feet, so the man scrambled up, “John is _mine_!”

“No one is going to _take_ him from you, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “However, we’re running out of options- and food. John is a very rare mage, as you know, and could very well save our lives. _All_ our lives.”

“Or he could _die_.”

“We’ll all die, eventually,” Mycroft replied, his voice musing, “However, I for one would rather go down fighting.”

“You don’t fight,” Sherlock snorted, “You plot, plan, and send others to do your dirty work.”

Sherrinford snorted an agreement, but then his mirror started to waver, “We’re losing the moonlight.”

“Until next full moon, brother,” Mycroft replied just before the mirror changed back to a reflection, “ _If_ we survive that long.”

“Drama queen,” Sherlock snickered.

“You’re one to talk,” Mycroft scowled, “Sherlock, you know I care for you _deeply_ -”

“Don’t make me sick, Mycroft.”

“-But I think it’s time for you two to go out and find a cure, don’t you?”

“I won’t risk john,” Sherlock replied.

“You mean you won’t risk your _hide_ ,” Mycroft snarled, “John is a Life Mage, he can keep you and himself healthy. Stop _stalling_.”

“I’m not _stalling_ ,” Sherlock replied softly, pacing back and forth, “I’m not going to waste my genius and john’s power on death.”

“What about sending out undead minions?” John suggested, “I could gather information and…”

“ _Where_ do you intend to get the bodies from, oh moral one?” Sherlock mocked, and then strode quickly across the room towards him.

John closed his eyes and braced himself for a backslap or even a kick, but instead Sherlock grabbed his face and kissed him hungrily, “I will _not_ let you go. However… I will let you go to our rooms. _Now._ ”

John booked it to their rooms where he automatically put on the kettle. Then he sat down and thought for himself for the first time in years. The fact of the matter was John Watson wasn’t a slouch where brains were concerned. He wasn’t just a Life Mage, he was a trained doctor as well. His submissive side came out to play _only_ with Sherlock, and it was not his only facet. He also had a strong warrior’s spirit, and a deep love for the man he gave his free will to. A love that made him consider, for the first time in six years, breaking the contract that bound him to his beloved.

John drew out the paper from the depths of his trunk and stared at it, reading each word lovingly as he recalled every single thing he’d accepted. His freedom, his choice to give, lay before a man who happily dissected corpses of men and women he’d _known_.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. My love. I can’t let us die in here. Not without at least trying.”

John raised his hands, closed his eyes, and tore the contract in two. Tears in his eyes, John removed his collar and placed it on top of the torn contract before taking up a quill and writing a few short sentences. He kept it brief; he had no idea how quickly Sherlock would be back, but there were a few things he _had_ to say just in case they never saw each other again. Then he grabbed the travel bag that he always kept ready for Sherlock’s whims, snatched up a few bits of food, and fled their rooms.

The guards were set to keep people out, but they were equally capable of keeping people in, so John had to start sneaking about once he got to the courtyard. It was crowded with people seeking some fresh air, even this early in the morning. The confines of the castle were causing conflicts to arise and Mycroft’s solution had been to assign everyone an hour a day, starting at dawn, to mill about the courtyard. As a submissive John knew that the schedule would keep them sane as much as the fresh air would. However, now he was out there when it was _not_ his time, and without Sherlock’s company. While John often moved about independently- whether on his own whim or Sherlock’s- it was something rare now that the castle had become as much a prison as a sanctuary, filled with people whose tempers were raw and who demanded the Mages correct their dilemma. John was in danger here, and if the guards saw him they would escort him back to Sherlock or their chambers post haste.

John slipped along the wall, keeping himself small and hoping his finery wasn’t a dead giveaway amidst all the rags. _I should have changed first. I’m becoming soft being Sherlock’s sub. I never would have overlooked something like that before._

John made it to the stairs that led to the walls, but they were guarded heavily so that people trapped inside couldn’t sneak loved ones inside or throw themselves to their messy death below. The walls had been altered by Sherlock’s powers in a previous battle, leaving them crystalline in some places. The opaque walls let light in, but not much view, but they were truly beautiful and standing outside of them had become somewhat of a tourist attraction. Now, however, no one was going to stand outside them without getting shot by the guards. They allowed no one near enough to bring in the plague.

John squared his shoulders and headed over to the guards with a pissed off look on his face.

“Evening Stephen, Gerome, Alice, Sophie,” John greeted, nodding at them all in turn while looking over their shoulders in distraction, “Look, I know it’s not my time but Sherlock sent me. I’m to gather sunlight. The first morning rays. I’m a bit late so…?”

“Sunlight?” Alice asked, perking up a bit, “How does that work?”

“I’ll show you some time,” John smiled warmly at her, “But for now I _really_ need to hurry or I’ll be in for the beating of a lifetime. Sherlock thinks he’s on to something to stop the pl… well, don’t let that on. People will talk.”

Hope blossomed in their eyes and they separated quickly, giving John an almost reverent stare. _I hope that faith is not misplaced._

John hurried up the stairs, rounded the corner, and found himself face to face with a pike. Jacob and Shawnessa, two guards he knew rather well but hadn’t seen in ages thanks to their duties, were standing there glaring at him in frustration.

“Easy, Jacob!” John gasped, “I’ve been sent by His Lordship! _”_

His Lordship was how they often referred to Sherlock when he was being a pain in the ass but calling him such would result in beheading.

“ _No one_ is allowed up here, John,” Jacob replied, “No one. I had to pass fucking _tests_ just to be placed on guard duty up here. Trust me. There are reasons.”

“I know that. I can’t imagine what you’ve seen over those walls,” John replied, giving him a sympathetic look, “But I _really_ need to…”

“Go back. That’s what you need to do. Take your beating from Sherlock if that’s what it comes to. We all know you _like_ it.”

John gaped at the look of disgust on the man’s face and then a look of complete revulsion on Shawnessa’s. He _knew_ these guards, he drank and made merry with them when Sherlock wasn’t availing of his time, but he’d never seen aversion to his lifestyle from them before.

“I don’t, actually,” John replied, licking his lips anxiously and glancing over his shoulder. He was running out of time, “I take it because it keeps him sane, or don’t you remember what he was like _before_ I came along?”

“A good enough reason to keep you safe,” Shawnessa replied, “Go back, John.”

“I can’t,” John replied, deciding for deceit once more, “Sherlock is working on a cure and he needs me to collect some morning sunlight.”

Jacob’s face showed that same glimmer of hope, but Shawnessa scoffed, “Bullshit. You can’t collect sunlight. My cousin’s a mage. He’s lying.”

Jacob prodded John’s chest with the pike sharply, drawing a hiss of discomfort from him as the sharp metal nicked him.

“At least he’s not lying about disliking pain,” Shawnessa laughed while Jacob herded him backwards.

John glanced behind him at the stairway and then darted to the right to avoid going down it. Jacob snarled angrily and dropped the pike to pull out his sword while Shawnessa blew a whistle to summon the guards behind John. John glanced over the edge, saw the drop onto sharp rocks, and threw himself over before the side of the wall before they could grab him.

John plummeted a good twenty feet before slamming hard onto two large rocks in the partially dried up moat. John heard as well as felt his left leg breaking, but ignored it in order to drag himself towards the opposite shore.

“Are you mad?!” Jacob shouted after him, “I was only going to restrain you, you idiot! I can’t pull you back up; the whole castle could be infected! My _kids_ are in here!”

John grunted in pain as he dragged his broken and bleeding leg onto the opposite side of the moat, peering up at the devastated faces of the people above him. There were now six guards up there.

“I strongly suggest,” John shouted up, his voice cracking with pain, “That you lot pretend not to have seen me… and pass that along to the four at the stairway.”

They glanced amongst each other a moment, reached a silent agreement, and then scattered. John stared up at the empty wall and reminded himself he’d made this choice. Then he set about forcing his broken bone back into the skin and waiting for himself to heal. There was risk, of course. Shock could set in before he could heal and kill him. He could bleed to death. He could catch the damn _plague_. For now, of course, there was nothing for it except to wait. He could heal someone else in an instant, but he couldn’t use his powers on himself actively. They would heal him passively over a period of time, sometimes very fast and other times extremely slowly. Thankfully, today was a fast healing process. Sherlock believed it was tuned in to his mental state, and that a sense of urgency would speed it up where shock or lack of concern would slow it down. John watched in wonder- always amazed by the sight of his own abilities- as his bone snapped back into perfect alignment, the blood clotted, veins aligned themselves, and the flesh knitted back together. He was light headed from blood loss and pain, though he’d learned over his years with Sherlock to deal quite well with the later, so he staggered to a nearby abandoned hay wagon and crawled beneath it to hide. It couldn’t be much longer before Sherlock saw his note and came looking for him.

_If he comes looking for me. He might not. He might snort in disgust at my ‘weakness’ and throw the remains of our contract and my note in the fire. He might laugh at the whole situation, go find himself a new slave, and set about seducing that one. He’d use all the information he’s gathered from me over the years to woo him properly. I might succeed completely, come back here with a cure, and find myself retiring back to my dukedom without my husband and the only real happiness I’ve ever had. I may have lost it all today._

John curled up, panic setting in as he felt what most would call _freedom_ pressing in around him. His ears strained to hear Sherlock’s voice. Part of him wanted the man to toss down a rope and join him. Another part wanted him safe; John’s own powers no guarantee that Sherlock could survive the plague just by being by his side. Yet another wanted to beat on the gates and beg to be let back in, given a fresh contract, and to kneel at his feet quietly for the rest of his life.

“Oh gods, what have I done?” John whispered, fighting down tears.

He hadn’t been without direction in so long. Hours of time away from Sherlock, knowing that he was somewhere nearby, were not the same as breaking their contract. Even when they were apart for _days_ at a time John had standing orders that he obeyed without question; orders for bathing, eating, how much tea he could drink and with how many biscuits, how often he could glance at a woman’s fine profile in a day (more than twice was reported to Sherlock and punished) and that he must _never_ look at a man in lust (it had yet to happen) besides Sherlock. It wasn’t that John had forgotten how to run his own life, it was that he felt as though chaos were raining without Sherlock to manage him. He could just as easily get up and do all those things without order, but what was the point? What point so much as standing if it wasn’t to see that pleased quirk on Sherlock’s lips when he did something the proud prince had ordered? What point continuing to _breathe_ without the reward of those long fingers carding through his hair or stroking him to hardness?

 _Oh gods, we might never make love again. No. Focus. You’re a soldier. A doctor. A Healer. A Life Mage. A Necromancer. You are not_ just _a submissive slave to one Sherlock Holmes!_

Except that was what had defined John for so long that the other titles seemed insignificant despite the many lives he’d saved- and ended- over the years. Sherlock had become his world. John gave in to despair and wept for the first time in six years.

 

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/130842.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | The Plague Ch 3

“Sherlock, it isn’t myself I fear for,” Mycroft stated, “It isn’t my kingdom- or what is left of it. It isn’t you, or John, or even my beloved husband. It’s _Andrew_.”

Andrew.

Sherlock sighed.

His nephew.

_Damn you, Mycroft._

“Andrew,” Mycroft continued, “Is so young, Sherlock. Too young to die. He is everything to me. I would trade him for anything in this world; the crown, my athair-“

Sherlock gaped at Mycroft. He hadn’t called Lestrade his _athair*_ in decades!

Mycroft seemed to realize his mistake and flinched, but then turned and glared daggers at Sherlock: “He means more to me than _your_ safety, Sherlock. Haven’t I always protected you? Always guarded you? Been the only one to show you consideration besides John?”

“Once your aspirations to kill me passed? Yes,” Sherlock smirked.

“That isn’t _funny_ ,” Mycroft growled, “I was a devastated child, I had no idea what I was planning on.”

“Around Andrew’s age, if I recall.”

“A year older,” Mycroft scowled, “He’s _frightened_ , Sherlock. He’s as intelligent as we were when we were young. He knows more than a five year old should. He knows people are dying, and he knows that he may die soon as well.”

Sherlock frowned. Prince Andrew also knew how to sneak about better than most children. He was behind a large wall hanging at the moment, listening to their every word.

“What do you expect me to do? Gather my things and go on a plague curing expedition? It’s madness. Assuming we got further than the gates without being swarmed by what few survivors there are and torn limb from limb in their frantic need to be _cured_ , how shall I go about curing an illness that baffles- and kills- even the Fae? If this were as simple as John using his abilities our dear eldest brother and his fairy kith would have found a way to transport him to them and make use of him that way; likely by snatching him up in the middle of the night. Surely there _is_ a cure, but what I really need is an environment in which I can experiment upon it until I find it.”

“How do you propose to go about such a thing?”

“I can use my powers to build an outlier building off of the castle, one that is connected but safe from attack by the desperate or looters… or infection. In it we’ll use extreme sanitary conditions to prevent spread of infection. You have someone make an announcement from the wall that we need the sick to go- or be taken- there. John and I will board ourselves up in the building and experiment, leaving a chute open to pass supplies in from your end while still allowing us contact with the outside world as needed. Once we find a cure we’ll mass produce it and deliver it to the village before going outward as soon as possible.”

“That is acceptable,” Mycroft decided after a moment of thought, “There’s still risk of contaminating the castle, but as you have mentioned before we can’t accomplish anything without taking _some_ small risk.”

Sherlock nodded and headed out the door, Andrew scampering after him once he’d snuck around.

“I want to go too,” Andrew insisted.

“No.”

“ _Please_ uncle?”

“No.”

“I’ll keep your secret if you let me.”

“I haven’t got a secret, and no anyhow.”

“Yes you have. You’re in love!”

Sherlock snorted, “You’re a foolish child who has been given too much credit.”

“You _love_ Uncle John!”

“He’s my slave.”

“No he isn’t, I’ve seen his papers. He’s a freeman. Father freed him and you married him. He just _pretends_ to be your slave.”

“Hm.”

“When I grow up I want to have _lots_ of slaves.”

“Slavery’s been abolished.”

“Not _that_ kind of slave. _Your_ kind of slave. Except I want mine to be girls.”

Sherlock stopped. That was quite the adult line of thinking.

“Andrew… what would you _do_ with these slave girls?”

Andrew stared up at Sherlock as if he were stupid, “Make them fetch me things, of course. The way you make John do. And sit on them. You’ve got it wrong there. Women are all soft and squishy, they’d make better furniture than Uncle John does. Honestly, I’d think you would have figured that out yourself.”

Sherlock turned away with a smirk on his face, “I prefer my furniture _hard,_ thank you very much Nephew.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted angrily from down the hall.

Sherlock laughed as he turned the corner and headed downstairs to his chambers. He’d have John pack up their things- he _loved_ to watch John pack- and then he’d go out to the walls with the missive from Mycroft and create the building. He’d have to utilize the bridge to the east. It was the largest rock deposit for miles. Of course, the easy access to water would be beneficial and…

Sherlock froze. Their contract. His contract with John, almost as precious to him as the man himself, was torn in twain on the table. Beside it was a hastily scrawled note. Sherlock rushed forward, hoping for an apology from John for having _accidentally_ torn the paper, or an explanation from his nephew who hadn’t realized what he’d torn up, or even a ransom note from kidnappers holding John hostage in expectation of a cure. What he found made his chest ache as though he were dying.

_My Prince,_

_I’m so sorry. I have to at least try to find a cure, and I’m useless here. I will always love you._

_Until I Can Be Yours Again,_

_Duke John Hamish Watson, Captain, Healer_

Sherlock sank to his knees on the ground, shaking in horror at his loss. John. John was gone. The ink was dry. He’d had time to escape the castle by now, and no one knew John’s speed and strength like Sherlock did. He would make it out in less than an hour, even if he ran into some odd confrontation. He’d be gone soon.

_If I shout at the wall he might hear me and…_

And what? He couldn’t come back in. He’d been exposed. Sherlock could join him, but it would be a suicide mission. He highly doubted John could heal him, himself perhaps, but not someone else of so deadly a plague as they faced.

_Too little data. I can’t see a solution._

Sherlock stood, placing the letter down with trembling hands, and drew Mycroft’s missive from his pocket. He’d have to continue with his brother’s plan. Keeping himself in a sterile environment would mean he had a better chance of surviving long enough to find a cure. And save John.

_John._

_JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn. My lover. My slave. The only man I have ever allowed inside my body. My beloved. The only person I have ever had feelings for- real feelings. Not just those of_ responsibility _such as my brothers draw from me. Even Andrew, with his beguiling charm, doesn’t hold such sway over me as the man who willingly submits to me. He owns me as surely as I own him. John. Do you know that? Have I expressed it enough? I need you. I need you back. Please._

Sherlock closed his eyes and took steadying breaths. He was useless to John if he fell apart. He had to keep it together. Sherlock walked steadily to the courtyard, his calculations telling him the east courtyard would be where John would head, and flashed his missive to get himself access to the wall. There he peered down and saw the signs of John’s escape. Blood. A trail of it. Then the trail stopped and footprints continued without blood. John had healed himself and crept beneath an worn down cart to hide until he regained his strength.

Sherlock had no voice. He wanted to shout down to John, but what do you tell your submissive who has just broken contract and fled both you and the safety of a plague-free castle?

_I love you._

_I’m not angry._

_Okay, I am angry, but I know why you did it._

_Do I know why you did it?_

_Was this just the last straw?_

_Will you taste freedom and never return to me?_

_Will you die and leave me in this dull world without your light to keep me sane?_

_Why didn’t you take me with you?_

_John?_

_JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn._

Finally, Sherlock turned away with a sigh and walked the perimeter to the area he was planning on creating the outlier building. Guards had already been sent down to block the (soon to be created) entrance from the curious or desperate. Sherlock raised his foci, gathered his power, and let the earth shake with the force of his pain. When he opened his eyes once more a stone dome stood where the bridge once had about a quarter mile away from the castle. A tunnel would lead to it, but no one need ever know that outside of those already privy to their plan. Sherlock went back inside once more and stomped into Mycroft’s chambers.

“I need slaves. Two, preferably.”

“Slaves? Sherlock, this isn’t Siger’s reign. I don’t allow slavery.”

“You will for me. I need two slaves. Young and strong.”

“You have John. You may have _servants_.”

“Your network is off. John is gone and has been for over an hour. Slaves, Mycroft. I need them to obey without question.”

“I doubt there are two intelligent young men in this castle capable of putting up with you,” Mycroft snorted, “And certainly none I am willing to strip of rank, title, and freedom at your whim… and what do you mean ‘John is gone’? Where’s he gone off to?”

“He’s gone, isn’t that enough?

Mycroft gave him a studious glare and then smirked, “Oh. Oh that _is_ interesting. You finally pushed too hard. A miracle he lasted this long, honestly. Well, I suppose that settles it. We’re all doomed, and all because you _beat_ the only Life Healer in the world into choosing to brave the plague over lying in your bed!”

Sherlock’s power lashed out without his permission, destroying the floor beneath Mycroft and dropping him into a pile of rubble. Sherlock walked slowly to the edge of the ravaged floor and stared into the pit he’d created out of pure rage, careful to at least keep his expression calm.

“I won’t be utilizing them for sex so they need not be males. Females will do. I’m sure you can find some faster considering women and children were brought in _first_. Do hurry, brother. Without John I may succumb to the plague faster and my research will certainly take longer. Snap to it.”

Sherlock pivoted on his heel, leaving his brother to drag himself out of the dust and rubble.

*This chapter references their childhood, which is detailed in Discipline Me. Discipline Me is primarily a Mystrade fic, but Sherlock is described in it as well; actually he’s basically the villain, though it isn’t a Dark!Lock fic.

[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/131666.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | The Plague Ch 4

WARNING UPDATE: Check the warnings. There is seriously creepy bug stuff in this chapter.  
  
John dragged himself out of the mud and forced himself to start walking. The town was only a hundred yards away and he entered the town square with no small amount of trepidation. The town square extended for nearly a mile and was more rectangular than square. It was shaped by a gigantic inn on one side, the castle on the other, and rows of shops on both sides with enough room in between for shops and carts. It was the life of the city, which wrapped around the castle on either side of this space. It also was deserted. He knew there had still been people alive in the town a day ago, but since then they may very well have all died.

“Hullo?” John called.

No answer. John headed down the road, eyes peeled for survivors. Beside the large central fountain was a smoldering pile of burnt corpses. The smell was horrific so John hurried past that, noting the buckets beside the fountain that had been used to keep the fire under control. They were dry. John was turning his sights towards the Great Dragon Inn when a loud voice boomed out across the square. The design of the square was intended to carry sound from the castle. Someone was speaking into the large funnel used to make speeches to the masses. John shivered when he heard that deep, familiar voice.

“Attention all survivors. A building has been set up at the east bridge. Report there for testing and eventual treatment.”

John turned and bolted for the east bridge, horrified at the idea that Sherlock was in danger. A door flew open to his right and he skidded to a halt to see three women, two children, and an armed man limp out. They were clearly ill, but they were in the early stages. They froze when they saw him and the man stepped forward with axe raised while the women surrounded the children.

“I’m no threat,” John insisted, “I’m a Healer. I’m trying to find a cure. If I could just take a look at all of you I might be able to help.”

“The prince…” The man started, and then doubled over as he coughed violently.

John pulled a scarf from his pocket and wrapped it around his mouth and nose to prevent infection for as long as possible. He hurried forward and pressed the cup of his stethoscope to the man’s chest. In truth it was a prop. John’s magic ability let him sense the state of everyone’s body whom he touched. He could feel the illness filling the cavity around the man’s lungs with fluid, putting pressure on his lungs until they struggled and flooded with ruptured blood vessels. The infection _wasn’t_ in his lungs. The coughing was a _symptom._ The infection was in his blood, a bacterial infection, but it couldn’t be spread by mere contact with his blood. John removed his scarf.

“It isn’t spread by coughing,” He explained when the women gave him a horrified look, “But I’d avoid contact with blood if any of you are disease free.”

“None of us are.” The first woman, nearly bald from the illness with her lymph nodes so swollen she couldn’t lower her left arm, “There _aren’t_ any healthy people anymore. We were all told yesterday to report to the fountain to be burnt alive before there wasn’t anyone else left to burn us. We refused. No one has come for us yet.”

“I doubt they’re in a state to,” John replied, “May I?”

He examined each of them and found the illness to be the same for each, though in different stages. The balding woman would be dead by nightfall. She was only standing by sheer strength of will. The children were both hers, John could tell by the connection in their blood. The man was not the father. He was unrelated to them, as he was to the other two women. They had banded together to survive the purge.

_I wonder how many others refused to report for burning? The pain they’re in is horrific, some would welcome death. They may be the only people left in the whole damn town._

“With your permission I’d like to try something,” John told the woman in the worst condition. He drew his knife once she had nodded, but had to calm her immediately, “It’s not for harming. I’m a Life Mage. This is my focus… like a magic wand, I suppose. I’ll not cut you with it, just myself.”

“You said it was spread by blood. Will you not expose yourself?” The second woman, dark skinned beneath her oozing wounds.

“I might, but I didn’t come here for my safety.”

“You left the castle,” The man whispered hoarsely.

“Yes. My loved ones are there. I couldn’t just wait for them to fall ill and die. It’s very likely I’m immune, but there’s no telling until I do or don’t start showing symptoms.”

So saying, John slit his hand open and pressed it to the balding woman’s open sores, he began to sing softly while focusing his power. The gems on the hilt of his knife glowed brilliantly beneath his grasp and he felt his blood sink into the woman’s wound. She hissed in pain, but then gasped in surprise. Her eyes glazed a bit and then her expression cleared of pain. John stepped back to see her symptom free, but frowned sadly as the people around him gasped in joy. She was not healed, only her wounds had closed and pain eased. John opened his mouth to explain that miserable fact only to faint dead away from the strain on his powers.

XXX

Sherlock had designed the masks himself and he ordered them to _never_ be removed while in the compound. It was a necessity anyway. The outer ring’s floor was flooded with three inches of vodka, the cheapest and easiest source of disinfectant since Mycroft had banned drinking after too many violent brawls broke out, and the fumes were dizzying. Those admitted would be led through this moat and onto a platform with a drain that functioned as a small washing area where they would be scrubbed clean, the remnants of their hair shaved off and kept for experimentation. They would then be brought into the second room of the dome, shaped as a half circle, where medical tables were set up for examination and an alchemy set for experimentation. Those who died would be tossed out on the far side of the river, the opposite side of the entrance, via a chute.

The second half of the inner circle of the dome was their living quarters, and entrance from the lab required being scrubbed from top to. The first set of doors took them into a small chamber that allowed them to scrub and shave their entire body, hang up their mask, and then enter their sanctuary. Their entire bodies were kept shaved at all times to avoid anything getting caught in the follicles.

Sherlock had just finished shaving himself and stepped out into the lab for the first time, staring around at the area that had been prepared while he’d debriefed and guided his two new slave girls. They followed behind him, wearing the shapeless shifts he’d given them as garments: the more simple the better. The garments would also be left in the middle chamber before entering sanctuary, and no alternatives were provided. He needed to know the moment sores broke out _anywhere_ and besides they had limited space to store extra garments. Blankets were available for warmth on the three small cots, two of which Molly was it the process of pushing together.

“If you two are going to be intimate, do wait until I’m not present.”

“Most men would enjoy such a sight,” Irene countered, raising an eyebrow as she sank down on one cot without an ounce of shame as to her nudity.

Sherlock instantly hated her. She was a Dominatrix and Molly was her long-term submissive partner. Mycroft must have assigned her in order to infuriate him. Molly obeyed her with almost no guidance, rotating around her like the sun around the Earth. It was painful to watch them together. It only made missing John more agonizing. He had already ordered Molly around and she _always_ glanced at Irene before obeying. He was too busy to punish either of them for that, but he would once he had a moment. So far they’d just stared at him when he’d reminded them that he was their Master now. It either hadn’t sunk in or Mycroft had told them otherwise.

Sherlock donned his garment and turned towards them to explain how everything would work. Molly looked horrified at the idea that she would be naked in front of him, but Irene just slid out of her shift and walked it to their shower room to hang it on a hook. She was so thin it was alarming, but Molly made up for it by being pleasantly plump in what John would have called ‘all the right areas’. Except her breasts. Sherlock rather thought larger was better, but John apparently liked any size and he was the one who enjoyed the company of women so…

_JohnJohnJohnJohn._

Sherlock gave his head a shake. He had to focus. He’d made the announcement three minutes ago. John and the others should report here. He couldn’t bring his lover into the sanctuary, but he could see him in the experimentation room. Sherlock headed there now, ordering the women back into their shifts, handing them their masks, and ordering them to let the first wave of ill into the vodka moat.

Sherlock could view the entrance from the examination room through a window made of clear crystal. It was perfectly fused with the stone around it and would let nothing in or out. What came through the door were a long line of miserable, coughing, bleeding, oozing, and moaning men and women who resembled the undead more than the living. There were at least a dozen in all, as young as teenaged but no older than forty. The very young and very old had likely succumbed first. Sherlock swallowed down his disappointment that John was not among them and focused on his task. The sooner he cured this malady the sooner he could go out, locate his wayward submissive, and re-seduce him.

They came in slowly, one by one, all to be examined with samples collected, and various hopeful treatments administered. All day and all night this went on until Molly and Irene were sleeping on a floor in the corner while Sherlock moved the dead himself. Four had died since being admitted, one from Sherlock’s attempts at a cure and the other three from the plague. On into the next day and two more had died. Sherlock’s pile of bodies outside was now quite large.

Sherlock sent one of the less-ill out to burn them and then had him re-scrub himself and re-enter. The man walked two paces into the room, let out a gurgling noise that drew everyone’s attention to him, and started to _swell up_. Sherlock watched in fascinated horror as the man’s lymph nodes swelled to horrific size while the man stood there with eyes watering from pain.

“Do something!” Someone croaked, but Sherlock was mesmerized, and even if he hadn’t been there was literally _nothing_ he could do for the poor bastard.

They exploded. His lymph nodes ruptured, showering three feet around him with puss and blood, and he crumbled to the ground. The man seized for nearly half an hour while Sherlock knelt over him and did what he could to collect data. Finally he stilled. Shock had killed him. Shock after the illness went from a three-day incubation period to a mere few hours.

“How? _Why?”_ Sherlock demanded, “He was only just showing symptoms. He should have had three days!”

“Those who touch the dead have only hours,” A woman croaked, “It’s why we burn them. He must have touched one by accident. If you don’t get too close you won’t die, but touching them is always fatal.”

Sherlock looked up in confusion, his eyes narrowed, and indicated himself and his slaves, “That’s impossible. _I’ve_ touched the dead. So have they.”

The woman shrugged, inching away from him, “They’re all doomed now. You. Your assistants. The men and women he leaked all over just now. It’s just a matter of time, really. In the end we’re all doomed.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock growled.

XXX

John woke slowly and found himself with his head pillowed on a straw cushion.

“Are you awake, Healer? Good. I’ve water for you. I’m afraid there’s no tea left, but we have bread.”

John sat up slowly, looking around the hovel he was situated in. The group from before must have brought him there. He could see them there, plus two more young men. The children were lying nearby and they looked worse than before. Far worse.

“You’ve been asleep for six hours. You _must_ hurry,” The woman from before spoke softly, “My children… please, they’re all I have left. I know you are tired, but they will _die_ soon!”

John nodded, and leaned on her for support as she guided him to their sides. He knelt beside the first one and repeated his cure, but blacked out immediately afterwards. When he woke up again there was only one child in the room, softly crying with her arms wrapped around a teddy bear. The healed woman was gone and so was the man who had been carrying an axe earlier.

“They died,” one of the other women spoke softly, “The little boy and my husband. I’m Jenika. This is Ariel. The little girl is Samantha. Those two boys won’t give us their names; they’re twins, so we just call them Long and Short for their hair length. Tabitha went to burn her son and my husband. I was too ill to go. Can you work your magic again?”

Hopeful, greedy, desperate eyes met his and John drew back in fear.

“I can’t actually heal you,” John replied, “I’m just easing the symptoms. Tabitha and Samantha only _feel_ well. In three days they’ll be sick again. We need to get to the compound the Prince set up and see what is causing the illness so I can heal it permanently.”

Jenika didn’t look as though she believed him, she just pressed food and drink into his hands and urged him to regain his strength. John sipped at it hesitantly. He couldn’t feel toxins in it, just the usual bacteria and minerals that dwelled in all well water. That didn’t stop him from being uneasy. The food he didn’t eat because he felt the illness in it a moment before he touched it.

“Where did the ingredients for this bread come from? Who handled it? It’s got the illness in it.”

The people around him all dropped it in horror and Ariel slapped it from Samantha’s hands with a curse.

“You’re already infected,” John replied, shaking his hand, “You might as well eat the food. It’s just me who can’t. I haven’t caught it… yet. Tell me where it came from, please?”

John scratched at his head, feeling something crawling there, and flicked a flea away. Damn things were probably everywhere. Ariel launched into an explanation, sipping water carefully around her nearly lost voice. She was bad off, but she’d survive the night.

“The wheat we found stored in a hut, the yeast was here, and the flour we took from the mill. We made it and baked it ourselves. There aren’t exactly _shops_ open anymore.”

John held his hand just over the tainted bread and let his powers stretch out. Not good enough. He would _have_ to touch it. He did so, despite the gasps of alarm from the occupants, and let himself take it all in.

“Some puss and blood got onto it after it was baked. Probably not all of them are infected, but this bit is.”

“Do you want mine?” Ariel offered, her eyes nearly worshipful as she stared at John.

“No, it’s likely infected since you’re handling it. I suggest you all eat up. I’ll find something for myself. I need to use the privy anyway.”

John climbed to his feet and headed for the doorway, but the teens blocked his path.

“Am I your prisoner?” He asked miserably.

“No, but… we can’t let you leave,” Ariel replied, apparently the only one left with enough voice to speak. Another wracking coughing fit nearly ended that.

“I _can_ fight you off,” John reminded her, “And I can also refuse to heal you. It isn’t in my nature, but I’ll do what I must if you restrain me. I just want some fresh air. Let me out the door and I’ll come back on my own.”

The two teens stared at each other and then stepped aside, looking sadly down at the floor. John ruffled their hair, taking in their health as he did so, and then hurried out. As he was stepping over the threshold a jolt of alarm went through him and he slapped his hand quickly. Disease. The illness had been _sitting_ on his hand, and it wasn’t from the bread. He’d reacted too quickly and with too much fear to process what had contained it, so he knelt down and studied the ground. Nothing. Whatever it was, it was gone.

No. Wait. _There!_

John stood up and backed away in horror, brushing at his hair and clothes and stomping his feet, but it was no use. The disease carriers surrounded him. They were on him and around him and it was only a matter of time before an infected one bit him.

XXX

_Fleas_.

They were everywhere, but their careful methods had kept them from this room. However, the castle had experienced an outbreak soon after they had brought some of the village folk in, making it rather likely that the fleas were only a secondary carrier. They were spreading it from something else, but _what?_ The likely culprits were animals. Sherlock would need to study them… but for now his concern was a vaccine or at least some form of treatment. The fleas were nearly inescapable, but the illness could be warded against. Sherlock was using the puss from the sores of the remaining survivors- of which they were down to three- to create a vaccine, but that wouldn’t save those already infected. He was certain now that the illness was bacterial, so there _should_ be an antibiotic that could kill it, but nothing he had grown in the past month was working. 

Nearby another person breathed their last.

_Then there were two,_ Sherlock sighed, and nudged his slave girls to order them to get the corpses out.

“Burn them immediately, before any fleas can jump on them. The disease mutates in a deceased body and a flea that bites one will kill you in a matter of hours,” Sherlock ordered.

The women stood up, but Molly paused and gave him an odd look.

“You know something,” Sherlock snapped, “Stop and speak.”

Molly hesitated, glanced at Irene who gave her a nod, and then carefully spoke up, “Fleas don’t bite the dead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was a mortician,” Molly explained, “Before the outbreak. I prepared the dead for burial. Fleas don’t bite the dead. Ever. Their blood isn’t nourishing within seconds of them dying.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “No. No, of course they don’t. That makes sense, but… why? Why is a disease spread by blood- and therefore by blood sucking parasites- becoming more violent when contained in _dead bodies_? If the fleas aren’t biting them, then what is?”

“Nothing that sucks blood,” Molly shrugged, “It wouldn’t have a reason to. Maybe a scavenger?”

“Those who came in contact with the dead weren’t bitten by anything as obvious as a scavenger,” Sherlock replied with a shake of his head, “It’s something else, but _what?”_

“Rats are small,” Irene stated, “Rats often carry disease _and_ fleas.”

“Yes, they’re the most likely carrier for the first leg of the illness, but so are cats and dogs. And people, for that matter,” Sherlock mused, “But where did it come from _before_ that?”

“What illness affects the dead more than the living?” Molly asked softly.

“And how did a mortician not catch it?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“I was evacuated before it hit the town,” Molly shrugged, “Mistress works in the castle, and so I was pulled in immediately.”

“Nepotism,” Sherlock sighed, “It got me locked up in there as well.”

Sherlock was silent while the women drenched the corpses in oil and dropped the down the chute. They held it open a moment to make sure the fire from the previous ones took, and then shut it.

“There, no need to go out,” Irene smiled, “You know, some fleas were trying to hop _up_ the chute. Maybe this illness is affecting them, too? Making them bite the dead?”

“Hexing and blessing without reason…” Sherlock muttered.

“What?” Irene asked.

“The Fae. They’ve been hexing and blessing without reason before just… dropping dead. That’s how the illness affects them. So how does it affect others? Irene, contact my brother and have him make another announcement. We need animals brought here.”

XXX

John didn’t make it far before the survivors surrounded him and held up shackles. He wasn’t about to let them kidnap him, so he fought sincerely and was soon surrounded by a pile of dead. The teenagers weighed on his soul the most. They were barely sixteen. They should be out chasing skirts and trousers, not slowly rotting away with some unidentifiable illness! At least the little girl, Samantha, hadn’t been amongst them. Her mother had likewise been absent, but John knew it was only a matter of time before they came back after him for treatment.

John stood there wondering how he would get all these bodies to the center to be burned (a wheelbarrow?) without being captured by more desperate survivors when something absolutely unrealistic happened.

Rats. Rats came crawling out of the corners and started inching forward. They were covered in sores and their teeth and fur were falling out. They were every inch as much victims of the plague as the people were. They paused in a circle around John and his ring of dead. They shuddered, and fleas jumped off of them in droves and _went for the dead bodies!_

John shouted in horror and made for the largest gap between bodies to get away from the mass of hopping death. He was swiping at his skin frantically, trying to get any fleas off of him that might or might not be there. He thought of the fountain again and bolted for it, intending on dunking himself, but when he neared it he saw more rats and the ground positively _teaming_ with fleas. The pile of burnt bodies had cooled and they’d gone looking for some less-cooked morsels to eat. The rats all turned as though of one mind and stared at John.

John did scream, then. He screamed as a man absolutely terrified and seeing a waking nightmare, because one of the rats had brushed his leg and he had felt the impossible.

The rats were _undead_.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Readers:

This does not affect those of you following me on facebook. Numerous people have reliably informed me that AO3, based on it’s lack of ability to turn off all comments, is a site meant to mete out judgment on the worth of fanfiction. Since I do not enjoy such criticisms and have not found value in them- I find following the advice tends to damage my stories more than improve them with the exception of invaluable grammar corrections- I will no longer be posting on AO3. I will finish up most of the stories that remain unfinished, with the exception of a few that will be noted, and move on to posting only amongst friends who are able to see me as more than a source of mindless entertainment… usually at my expense.

Sincerely,  
Vinny Meoblinn

 

Dear Critics:

I realize that most of you were honestly trying to improve my stories, but I’m afraid in most cases your advice missed the mark. While such helpful corrections such as grammar, spelling, and the occasional missed fact were invaluable to me, I’m afraid I really must draw the line at character and plot manipulation. I found that the demands made on me by well meaning readers tended to force happy endings where none fit, forced miserable endings when criticism brought my love of a story to an end, and generally forced me to alter my stories to the whim of others. In short, I am tired of having my stories **raped**. Since it seems redundant to ask those intent on doing so to include a non-con warning at the top off their comments- and honestly most complaints could have been avoided if people had _actually read the author notes_ \- leaving AO3 seems to me to be the best option. As noted above, while I will not delete my stories, I _will_ post my stories in private from now on to avoid disgusting those of you who prefer to write your fanfiction stories vicariously through another author, and were disappointed by my lack of participation.

Vincent Meoblinn

 

Stories that will be completed on AO3:

Dragon Blood 2.0  
Discipline Me  
Plague  
Perfect Match (Plot only)  
To Breed an Omega  


Stories that will NOT be completed on AO3:

Sherlock Skellington  
Then Lestrade Walked In…  
Sentience Pt 2 (Life and 3nergy to be posted privately only)  
The Futanari Club  
Rupert  
Ficlets  
Unstarted Prompts  



End file.
